


The Morning Breaks

by Heronfem



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, morning fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 06:40:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4169787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heronfem/pseuds/Heronfem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He needs the bigger bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Morning Breaks

He needs the bigger bed, he knows, but the morning spills so sweetly, so softly over them that he cannot bear to change a thing.

Here, they are sunlight and the warm light of dusk, here they are _his_.

He watches them, taking in the way Cullen curls into his chest, how Dorian nestles against his side while clutching Cullen’s hand. He wonders if they dream together, dusk and dawn walking and fighting through the Fade, the terror of all who behold them.

_Look on ye mighty, despair._

He thinks of sands and time and the heat of the north, the sweet taste of sticky street food cloying on his tongue. He remembers the taste of hunger, how it sits like ashes in the mouth. He thinks of Minrathous, from the back of the slave cart, of seeing the Soporati about their business and the well dressed Magisters and their children flitting about like black cloaked menaces. Dorian could have been one of them, a bratty, desperate shadow hurrying along at his father’s feet, silently shadowed by some Elven slave. He knows that Dorian’s real father is Elven, the one who raised him and taught him right and wrong. His real father, who was killed to try and change him.

Dorian shifts under his arm, hand tightening on Cullen’s.

He needs the bigger bed. The commander is a large, lanky, heat seeking arrow of a cat, with all his namesakes contrary action and reluctant enjoyment of life. Cullen wants nothing more than this, the easy way they pull him in, Dorian crooning sweet nothings while attention is lavished on him in all the best ways. Cullen loves to be pinned, the choices taken from him, to be settled and forced to stay that way until he’s limp from relaxation, pliant under Dorian’s ministrations, an eager pupil in Bull’s hands.

Cullen always wakes first. The sunlight is dappling his skin, and he shivers, full body, long limbs stretching, tensing, relaxing. He never lets go, though. Not until Dorian is back with them, not until they’ve all exchanged lazy morning kisses that reek of morning breath and everything is _morning, morning, morning_.

He could stay like this forever, and when Dorian slowly drags himself to consciousness, he whispers adoration into their skin.


End file.
